A Fight to the Bitter End
by VesperLogan12
Summary: As the 25th year of the Hunger Games arrives with a new twist, twenty four tributes are thrown into the arena. As alliances form and tributes die, who will be the last one remaining? Which District will have the Victor of the first Quarter Quell? Written with SouthKentishTown.
1. Jasmine 1

**A/N: Okay, so we decided we wanted to write a previous version of the Games, focusing on three characters, and will be updated weekly (hopefully :P). However, we would just like to thank Jynx6 for letting us takeover her characters!  
Also, this chapter could possibly be extended soon because at the moment, it's quite short and the title is most likely to change! Please drop us a review!**

Smiling broadly, I step forward into the glimmering sunlight of District 1's town centre with my name still echoing in my head.

As much as I love the strange lilt to the Capitol woman's voice, the clipped tone and the hard vowels, I don't need to be told twice. This is the moment I've been waiting for, the moment that I've spent all my life training for, and I'm not going to let Ruby live it down.

She may be my friend, but even I'm not above gloating, especially when I'm the one selected to bring our District the highest honour – another victor of the Hunger Games. Striding forward to the podium, I let the moment form in my mind as I watch the sunlight play off my pale skin.

"And the female tribute is… Jasmine Silverflown!"

Those words had been music to my ears, and now they're mine, all mine. My victory over my District will become my victory in the Games; and I'll be damned if I let anyone try and take it away from me.

I'm still half in my head when those words cut through my thoughts.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

They come from right beside me.

Without thinking, I turn and slash my knife across their throat, feeling the warmth of their blood gush over my hands. No one is taking this away from me. No one!

The body goes limp and I let it fall. It lands with a soft thud that brings me out of my daze.

I blink blankly at the body. It scarcely seems to be a person at all, a mass of brown curls covering the face and the gash from which blood still spills. I don't need to turn over the corpse to know exactly who it is though.

That voice, how could have I not realised? That look, a flash of betrayal and shock that had struck across her grey eyes as I slit her neck from ear to ear with a simple slash. She's still wearing it, even though now her face is fixed in a firm stare at the hard stone of the sidewalk. I'm staring at the corpse when the Peacekeepers seize me by the rough sleeve of my top and haul me out of the crowd towards the centre stage.

The crowd is silent. No one else volunteers, they're too scared to raise their hand against me, and for that I am grimly grateful.

As they force me on to the podium, one of them is brave enough to wrestle my knife from where it's gripped tightly at my side. I don't bother to fight them as they push me to the forefront of the stage, forming a respectful barrier between me and the rest of the District.

They eye me warily. I could take them, and they know it. I could take all of them, that's why they're keeping a wary distance from me, why no one else will call themselves out for tribute. They haven't tried to wash the blood from my hands, they haven't even bothered to wrestle the blonde hair back from my face, and instead they've left me blood-stained, standing half-crazed before my District. I am a warning that we are not to be messed with.

As everyone stares at me in an uneasy silence, the Capitol woman clears her throat, attempting to gain their attention once more.

"And now for the male tribute."

Her hand dips into the bowl gracefully, rummaging around until her fingers close around a single roll of paper. She doesn't dare tease them, like she did the female tribute. Instead, she reads the name straight out.

"And, the male tribute for District 1 is… Garne Mirrorslash."

A hushed whisper moves through the crowd in a wave of movement as people crane their heads in to listen. They all say the same thing though, and it's the same thing that echoes in my own head as a tall, muscular brunette boy ascends towards the stage, flanked either side by Peacekeepers.

That's her brother.

Ruby Mirrorslash spent every day of the week training to be like her twin brother, constantly joking that she would win over him in a fight to the death. Now we'll never know, after I slit her throat with my own knife.

His knuckles are tightly clenched as he walks up the short flight of stairs and takes his place on the podium beside me. My heart would flutter if I had the capacity to care.

As it is, I stare him down, my blue eyes locking with his in a silent battle of strength. Neither of us win, instead, the tension is broken when a small smirk fixes itself on his face, and he leans towards me, level with my eyes.

"You may be one cold-hearted bitch, Jasmine, but be careful it doesn't get the better of you."

Then he steps back and grips of my hand hard, raising it in the air before I have any time to protest and glaring out across the crowd angrily.

"Does anyone else dare challenge us?"


	2. Colette 1

**A/N: Okay, so this chapter was written by SouthKentishTown, and everything in the point of view of Colette will be written by her. Jynx6 owns Jasmine, which was written by both me and SouthKentishTown and the next chapter will be written by me and introduces my character. We hope you enjoy!**

My palms are slick with sweat.

Half of it's from the heat, a hangover from the hours spent marching through the soot-blackened, chimney like streets of District 3's Munitions Quarter under the boiling midsummer sun. The other half is from nerves.

It doesn't help that this is the year the food rationing fell short, and that between the three of us we could scarcely afford what the tesserae offered. As Mayor Enfield peers into the first of the great glass Reaping balls, it strikes me that 57 slips of those papers have my name on them.

Instinctively, my hand moves towards my throat as my eyes scan the rows of Plant workers for reassurance. A few rows forward, Circi catches my gaze and returns an anxious, shaky nod. In front of her, the Wireboard twins clutch at each other's fingers, burning their knuckles brazen white from nerves at their first Reapings.

At least it isn't just me on this one.

As the sun glares overhead, I bow my neck, craning between rows of pale grey and yellow uniforms for a glimpse of the Mayor's hand disappearing inside the Reaping Ball. With a sickening smile, he turns the sheet over, waggling his fat fingers in anticipation.

Sometimes, I swear that I could kill him. Between his rounded figure, his fresh-pressed pinstripe suit and the smug smirk he constantly wears, Enfield couldn't be further away from the rest of the dark, dusty reality of District 3. Even my family can scarcely afford the smile he wears like a bad smell.

Nerves twitch in my chest, and I ball my hand against the dull pulse of my neck. Any second now, and he'll unfurl the smudged slip, and I'll be safe, my name won't have been called, and I'll be alive again for another year.

Development is risky business, it always has been, and Munitions Development is an area with higher casualty rates than most. But I feel, with the sickening sensation that grows inside my chest, that a quick death from a bomb blast is far better than a slow, agonising death at the hands of the Capitol's Hunger Games.

I'm still crushing my hand tight towards my throat when I feel a firm, rough, familiar hand clasp onto my shoulder.

Stiffening, my muscles tense into the hard hollows of callouses; the three entrenched into his left palm, the one that bites into the line of his ring finger. I know without turning the exact size and shape of the grey smear of munitions dust his hand will leave, the throb of half-pain that flushes across my face reminds me of that much. I know the grim smile that sets lines of ash across his face, just as I know which one of my 3000 colleagues is holding onto my shoulder like it's the loose wiring of a bomb.

"Hands off Vanzetti. We're not in Wing 5 now." I keep my voice to a purr, not trusting it louder than a whisper.

The pressure intensifies beneath his hand, branding five circular bruises into my skin. It doesn't take much for my mind to imagine the snide grin that spreads across his face as he pulls himself close to my ear and whispers:

"Hey Bullet. It's you."

Four words and my heart feels like it has stopped beating.

For the first time in years the faint drone of my phantom limb returns, the tingling reminder of what I lost to my District years ago.

Now I'm going to lose to it again.

The peacekeepers haul me out, gloved hands clamping round my arms and forcing me from the stands into the brilliant heat of the square. Thousands of eyes appraise me, glaring warily from the relative safety of behind the cordon.

I can feel the judgement of every one of my friends minus one. Circi is beyond sobbing, her gaze fixed on me with a fierce anger that borders on crazed. Teewire Wireboard buries her head in her sister Voltess' neck. My mother, my father, both of them clutch their grey collars, choking back sobs. Even Vanzetti has a look that could be mistaken for remorse.

They're all here, apart from Veto. Balling my hands into fists, I take a step forward, away from the Peacekeepers and towards the podium. Then I take another.

The steps come thick and fast then, in long strides towards the raised dais from which the Mayor beams broadly. I used to laugh when he told me that he would hide in empty shell casings on Reaping Day, that he'd conveniently find himself 'lost' somewhere between the Hardware Quarter and the Town Square. Once upon another time, I thought that the Capitol wouldn't be cheated, that it couldn't be cheated.

Veto Coilvalve, whose skin was saved at the expense of others, who believed he could hide from the world in shrapnel and dust.

My prosthetic leg clicks impatiently with every stride, the only sound between me and the walls of silent would-be tributes. No one will volunteer, no one ever has volunteered. District 3 has one unwritten rule above all others – if you leave things to chance, then you're the only one to blame when the world goes wrong.

I left it to chance by even showing my face today, unlike Veto.

As I mount the stage, and turn into the full light of the lazing sun, a strangled half cry rips its way from the audience. Even I'm startled, my hand returning to rest by my neck. The crowd parts in a seam of disapproval, revealing the source of the sound.

"Beretta?"

My sister's name escapes as a soft mutter. She struggles forward, pushing through the waves of people towards me, hands outstretched as if she could reach out and touch me.

The Peacekeepers are quick to respond, carving through the crowd in flashes of white to where she stands amongst the spectators. She shouts something I can't quite catch, and they wave their guns at her. She just shouts louder.

"I volunteer!"

Her voice is scarcely audible beneath the wave of ashamed mumbling. Does she honestly not realise what she's done?

It dawns on her slowly, starting with the tips of her ears, before flushing her entire face red with shame. Backing off, a wave of hands pull her back into place. She should know better than to break District code. She should realise that she is too old to compete in the Hunger Games.

But the frantic gaze she throws tells me that she realises that the reason I am here is next to her fault. She's just too late. I avert my eyes.

The altercation over, Mayor Enfield wraps one hand squarely around his bow tie and plunges the other into the second sea of dirty paper. It takes him a few tries to decide on a scrap, tossing a few out of the way before choosing a fairly uniform piece earmarked with a black smudge across the top left hand corner.

If I were superstitious, I would cross my fingers. If I were from the Software Quarter, I would pray. But I am neither, and in the Munitions Quarter there is no such thing as luck, only probabilities and odds. The likelihood of my opponent being someone I don't know is high, thankfully, but leaving such things down to chance still makes my skin itch.

Unfortunately, it itches for a good reason.

"The male tribute is... Abalone Vanzetti!"

I can scarcely believe it, and from across the dais, Vanzetti clearly can't either as Peacekeepers usher him forward to the podium where the Mayor stands with his hand outstretched.

Our eyes catch for a fraction of a second too long, and thoughts flicker between us. It's probably a good job that we're both thinking almost exactly the same thing.

_You're dead._


	3. Willow 1

**A/N: Still no reviews or anything. We hope you aren't boring you guys too much ;) Anyway, here's the next chapter that introduces my character. Also, Merry Christmas! **

The day is here; the one that everyone dreads. For today is the day of the annual Reaping for the Hunger Games in District 12.

Stood in a crowd of girls my own age, I can't concentrate on anything, shifting anxiously from foot to foot as everyone waits silently for Denver Trinket to make his appearance to pick the two names from the glass bowls that stood proudly on the stage. He is late, as per usual.

Swallowing anxiously, I look up, hoping to find some sense of solace up there. But there is nothing. The normally beautiful blue sky is thick with a grey layer of clouds that hide the sun, reflecting the gloomy mood of the people around me. I sigh deeply. It's only my second time standing in this courtyard, but my name is in that glass bowl fifteen times already.

District 12 is one of the poorest Districts with most of us barely surviving on the little food we have. Even though I'm the baker's daughter, it's still hard to have enough to eat. We can barely afford to buy the ingredients needed to make the bread, and with everyone else having so little money, it's not surprising we get hardly any profit on selling the products we make.

A hand sneaks its way into mine, bringing me back to the present. I look up at my best friend beside me and give her a half-hearted smile.

"Don't worry, Willow, you'll be fine," she tells me. "Look at all these girls. What are the chances of either of us getting picked this year? Some of them must have their name in that bowl nearly one hundred times!"

"Don't jinx us!" I warn her jokingly as the doors of the Town Hall open and the man everyone dreads to see strides out.

This time, Denver was dressed in an elaborately sewn orange suit, his hair styled in bright blue spikes, contrasting ridiculously against the rest of the dull, grey courtyard and his beaming, white smile the opposite expression to the sea of people around me. He stops at the front of the stage and looks round at us all.

"Hello, District 12, and welcome to the 25th Annual Hunger Games!" he calls into the squeaky microphone and then pauses, as if expecting us to cheer. We stay silent. Quickly, he clears his throat and continues. "So, this year, as you all know, is the first ever Quarter Quell, celebrating twenty-five years of all that stands for the Hunger Games. I shall proceed to pick the names of the lucky girl and boy who will have the great honour of representing this District in this special event. May the odds be forever in your favour!"

I wince at the choice of words, but my mind immediately loses interest in that as Denver plunges his hand into the first glass bowl for the female tribute. I can hear my heart thudding as his long fingers close around one piece of rolled up paper and slowly draws it out.

"And the female tribute for District 12 is…" All that can be heard is the crinkle of unrolling paper as everyone waits with baited breath, praying it won't be them. "And the lucky girl is… Willow Flyrose!"

I freeze. I can't breathe. The air seems to have stopped inside my lungs as everyone turns to look at me, horror written all over their faces. It can't be me! Who is going to walk my sister, Poppy, to school each day? Who's going to look out for her when the boys come and knock her over in the school hallways? My parents definitely don't have the time with the bakery in the position it is!

"Willow… Willow." Orchid's worried voice brings me out of my trance. I turn to her in terror.

"Orchid…" I start, but I can see the Peacekeepers coming for me out of the corner of my eye and fear manages to choke back the words I want to say.

"I'm so sorry, Willow," she whispers, a tear slowly falling down her cheek as the Peacekeepers reach me and take hold of my arms, wrestling me out of the crowd and into the aisle.

As I'm marched up to the stage, I try and spot my parents in the crowd of adults stood to the side of the aisle, but there are too many faces staring back at me, remorse clouding their eyes. All too soon, I reach the stage. From here on, I am alone. Taking a deep breath, I tentatively start to climb the stairs. Denver is standing at the top, his hand outstretched to help me up.

That is when I hear the most awful wail come from the back of the crowd. I turn just in time to spot my mother desperately trying to push her way through the crowd to reach me.

"No! Not my baby, please! Not my Willow!"

My father catches her before she can do anything else stupid and pulls her close to his chest as she sobs, catching my eye and looking at me sadly. Poppy soon appears at my father's side and wraps her arms around his waist, burying her head in his shirt.

A tear finds its way down my cheek as Denver takes hold of my wrist and pulls me up the last step, causing me to lose sight of the last time I would ever see my loved ones together.

"And, so, how old are you, Miss Flyrose?" he asks, trying to take everyone's mind of my grieving family.

"I… I'm thirteen," I say shakily.

"Ah, well. Shall we see who your fellow tribute is going to be?" He lets go of my hand as he delves into the other bowl. I pray that the name is unfamiliar. "And the male tribute for District 12 is… Benedict Hollowthorn!"

It seems this time my prayer is answered. Although I know the name, I can't put a face to it, so I scan the crowd, looking for someone moving towards the front.

Soon, I spot a relatively tall boy making his way to the aisle. He must be about fifteen or sixteen, with shaggy blonde hair swept across his eyes. He looks familiar, but I can only guess it's from school or serving him in the bakery.

I see him look back at a boy about my age with saddened eyes. A boy who also has shaggy blonde hair. It can only be his brother, I realise as the Peacekeepers escort him towards where I was stood. His face is blank as he mounts the stage and walks over to me. Yet, as he catches my eye, he gives me a small reassuring smile before turning to face the silent crowd, his face emotionless once again.


	4. Willow 2

**A/N: I know I said it would be updated weekly, but I had too much to do and no one seems interested in this story anyway... but we're going to keep going with it to the end :)**

As soon as Denver finishes his speech, the Peacekeepers haul us out of the courtyard and into the room where we will be allowed to say goodbye to our families. As I stand looking out of the window at the departing crowd, Benedict comes over to me, gazing at me with the same expression that everyone has today; regret.

Annoyed, I look down. However, it seems like he takes my movement as sadness.

"I don't know what to say other than the fact I'm truly sorry, Willow," he says softly, placing a soothing hand on my arm. I shrug it off.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I snap, referring to the smile he gave me earlier on as well as his words. "We can't both survive this; the likelihood is that we both won't be coming back."

Hurt clouds his eyes before he speaks up again. "I have a sister your age," he admits. "A sister I love very much–"

"You think you see her in me?" I accuse him. "Well, you don't know me! I am _not_ your sister, and I never will be; I can look after myself!"

He backs up a bit, taken by surprise.

"Sorry, Willow, I didn't mean to offend you in any way."

"Don't worry," I mutter and walk away. I'm well aware that I'm being harsh, but at this precise moment, I don't care. I need to be alone. Alone to think about what was, most likely, to be my end.

However, a few minutes later, the doors of the room we are being held in open and my sister rushes in, closely followed by my parents.

"Willow!" Poppy cries, running up to me and flinging her arms around my neck. "You can't go, you can't leave me here!"

I unwind her limbs from me and kneel in front of her.

"Poppy, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!" I say to the sobbing girl. "But I have no choice. I don't want to go, I swear!"

"You have to win for me; you have to come back! I need you!"

"Poppy, sweetheart, come away now," my father says, realising  
that I'm about to cry. He lifts her into his arms and backs away so I can talk to my mother.

I immediately embrace her as she comes over, burying my head into her chest and breathing in her familiar scent. It anchors me, and slowly I lift my head up to meet her eyes, managing to keep my tears at bay.

"I'm scared," I whisper, and she hugs me tightly.

"I know, sweetheart," she replies. "I know. There's nothing I can say or do to make you feel better, but just know this. Your father, Poppy and I love you, and whatever happens, whatever you do in those Games, that will never change."

I smile slightly. "Thank you," I murmur, and snuggle back into her warmth. I don't want to have to let go, but when the Peace Keeper announces that we only have two minutes left, I realise that I am yet to say goodbye to my father.

This goodbye is always going to be the hardest one I have to give. I am closer to my father than anyone else I know. I was the one with him, learning how to purchase the ingredients needed for the bread, whilst my sister stayed at home with my mother and learnt to sew. I was the one lifted onto my father's shoulders at the reaping each year whilst my sister hid in my mother's skirts. That time is gone now. Probably never to come back. I immediately dismiss that thought from my head; if there is something my father has always taught me, it is to be strong when you need to be.

"Father," I say as he comes over to me, leaving Poppy with my mother.

"Willow, my dear child, what am I going to do without you? What am I going to do without my little helper to come to the market with me so early every Saturday morning?" He ruffles my hair as he pulls me into a hug.

"You'll have Poppy. I don't think you'll get Mother up so early, but I reckon you can get Poppy to go with you," I tell him, grinning.

He laughs. "You try your best in that arena. We'll be waiting for you."

At that point, the Peace Keeper calls that our time is up and I run to give my family one last hug before they are forced to leave.

"I love you all," I say as they leave and the door clicks shut behind them, leaving me alone with Benedict again. My mood immediately sours as the atmosphere in the room changes.

Not wanting to talk to my fellow tribute, I walk over and sit on the window ledge, watching as our families leave the main square. _The last time I will ever see them_, I think to myself, and then curse the thought as a tear drops down my cheek.

I sense Benedict come over and the cushion on the ledge shifts as he sits down next to me.

"Do you want to talk?" he asks. I don't answer. He continues anyway. "I know you don't like me, and I know I went about it wrong earlier, but I really would like to ally with you in the Games. We don't have a mentor, so I was figuring out what sort of things they would be telling us. I figured allying would be one of them."

"Would stay alive be another?" I say sarcastically.

"I suppose that would be a good one." I can hear the smile in his voice and turn with the intention of glaring at him. Instead, I find the corners of my mouth creeping upwards.

"So you can actually smile then?"

"Oi!" I go to punch him lightly, but before I can, he takes hold of my wrist and twists it behind me. I let out a gasp of shock and he laughs.

"Just practising," he smirks. "Never underestimate your opponent."

I roll my eyes and pull myself out of his grip before stalking over to the other side of the room. He had to be one of the most annoying people I had ever met. However, saying that, I couldn't doubt one thing. He was going to be a good ally.


End file.
